


The things Mary left behind

by darkergrey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-14 13:53:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9184567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkergrey/pseuds/darkergrey
Summary: To Sherlock, it's confusion. (Post S4, E1 -  Johnlock, don't know how deep this will go)





	1. Confusion

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to its creators, I am making no money out of this.  
> I don't know where this will be going, but I will keep the chapters short and hopefully frequent. 
> 
> Please feel free to tell me what you think.

**The things Mary left behind**

 

**Chapter One: Confusion**

 

Mary left Sherlock behind, with an impossible task, an impossible case, because it wasn’t a case exactly, it wasn’t the game he played as perfectly as the violin, it wasn’t his virtue – it was social. Social, for god’s sake, as if she hadn’t been aware of his lack of data and experience in this area.

Sherlock thought she had done it by choice; he had sworn to protect her and had failed and therefore, Mary had taken revenge asking the impossible. And he detested her for it, but weirdly, he felt obliged to obey, him, who did not obey anyone, not Mycroft, not Mrs. Hudson and surely not John.

And so he went there, to the baby who had lost its mother and the father who was too angry or grieving or maybe both to care. And Molly Hooper rejected him by John’s order; Molly, who was in love with him, admired him, had helped him fake his death despite knowing what John would go through - _rejected_ him.

And he hadn’t quite understood before how fragile his and John’s friendship had been, how it had cracked under the shot that had been meant for him, had broken into pieces as she had taken her last breath in her husband’s arms.

He hadn’t understood because it had all been so very cliché and he knew he shouldn’t have thought it, but it just had been and his mind had focused on that instead of the consequences.

 

He hadn’t shot her. John’s anger was unjustified because he hadn’t shot her and who could have predicted the old hag would really fire...

It was only justified because he had promised to keep her save. He never made promises, never in his career, not heartfelt ones, only the ones to show off, _I can solve your case in a second_ and vice versa, but never out of emotion, out of care, out of _sentiment_...

 

He fired ten shots into the wall. And Mrs. Hudson did not stop him. She brought him tea and cookies instead and that was even worse than Molly Hooper’s behaviour.

 

And Lestrade denied him a case. Instead, he gave him numbers and addresses of psychologists and urged him to go, to talk to a professional if he wanted to understand John, if he wanted to get him back. As if they were a teenage couple in love, going through their first breakup.

He went. He went because of Mary and he hated her. _Go to hell_ , she had said, but that hadn’t been enough, she had had to send him there herself. The first psychologist was too stupid to even get the point, he told him to talk about his feelings towards Mary’s death instead of explaining why his friend, his best friend as John had said himself, abandoned him.

He had made that promise not for Mary. Yes, he had, but only to show off. He had made it to John, out of sentiment, because of _goldfish_.

The next one was a little better, dull but attentive, at least realising what he wanted, though she found no words to explain, except the usual phrases, _your friend is in shock, he’s lost the love of his life, he’s alone with a child_...

 

Sherlock gave up.

 

And then, Mycroft appeared. He appeared and tried to help him understand. It was then Sherlock really realised the situation was graver than he had thought, finally understood that it was possible John would never return, because his brother, the leader of the goldfish empire, was trying to act like a human being. He failed, in each sentence, in each word, but Sherlock couldn’t mock him, just stared and then Mycroft left, uneasy und uncomfortable, as if he had bathed in dung.

It was then his mind palace failed. Cigarettes failed. Shooting failed. It was then, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes couldn’t sleep because his mind tried to work a way around this, solve this and failed. His mind ran in infinite circles around just one thing, one name and, most confusing, one person: John.


	2. A version of John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Molly, it's a version of John she knows nothing about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos! And thank you for reading!

Molly Hooper was good at consoling grieving people. She had a kind, friendly personality, was a good listener and never put herself first (which was actually a flaw and very hindering, only Molly couldn’t see it. Or wouldn’t). So when Mary died, the woman she had secretly admired for her strength, her easy way with Sherlock, her warm smile, her reckless nature hidden behind unnatural calm, she raised the flag and hurried to John’s and Rosie’s rescue.

 

And it worked fine, at first. She did the laundry, the cleaning, she went shopping, she cared for Rosie’s needs. She tried talking to John but he wouldn’t and she left it at that, for the time being. She understood people had different ways to grieve and John was thankful, well, at least she thought so, he never said it.

 

Then came the moment John told her what she had to say to Sherlock, if he would show up. For a second, she was stunned. For a second she wondered who the man in front of her was; if she knew him at all, but that was silly, he was John Watson, he was Sherlock’s friend, he was a kind man, just a little too drawn to danger. He was just in shock, of course he was. 

 

She spoke the words to Sherlock, as John demanded. His glance did not hurt her as much as his irritated blinking. Sherlock Holmes clearly didn’t know what to do and that was new, seeing the man who had faked his own death running out of ideas. But then, it was Sherlock and even though she loved him, she had to admit he was usually ridiculously careless towards people, even rude, though he didn’t mean it. He just didn’t understand; John was just grieving; they would get over this.

 

Days passed. A week. Two. John did not speak. Mycroft showed up and he was allowed to come in until he spoke Sherlock’s name, then Molly had to show him out. She was uneasy, apologising, but apologising meant nothing to Mycroft – his visit had been one out of duty, he did not care.

 

Mrs. Hudson brought cookies and made the mistake to call Sherlock’s state a mess, which ended in Molly showing her out as well. She apologised, again, but apologising meant nothing to Mrs. Hudson because, truth to be told, she loved Sherlock more than John. John was replaceable to her, as long as Sherlock was there.

 

Week 3 passed and Sherlock returned. He called John’s name from the front door and Molly tried her best to shield the entrance from him, eventually succeeding, yet not happy about it. Hearing Sherlock call for John in a voice that sounded almost angry and scarcely helpless was hard to endure. Sherlock left.

 

Molly sat on the couch the whole evening, indecisive. Mary had been killed because she took a bullet for Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t shot her, but underestimated the danger he had called her into. But Sherlock had saved her before, even though no one really talked about that, even though Molly suspected there was more to it than shown in the news. And Mary had shot Sherlock, he could have died and yet, he had forgiven her. Moreover, John had forgiven her the lies and the bullet she had stuck into Sherlock’s chest.

 

Lestrade came to visit and he did not mention Sherlock. Molly didn’t know what the two men talked about, but Lestrade didn’t seem very happy as he told her goodbye; he even went so far to tell her to watch out. Molly did not know what he meant. Watch out for what? Sherlock's actions? He was unpredictable, but he would never hurt her. John? He was hurt, not suicidal. And imagining John Watson hurting her was so ridiculous she stopped thinking about it immediately. 

 

Sherlock visited for the third time, this time speaking less, giving her a letter meant for John. She held it out to him, later, and spoke: “Sherlock...”

“Don’t say that name,” John said, his voice strangely hollow.

“He has written you a letter,” she explained, still holding it out to him.

“I don’t care.”

“It’s just a letter. You can throw it away if you don’t like it.”

She actually meant after he had read it, but he just stared at her, grabbed it and ripped it into shreds.

“I don’t like it,” he said and turned around.

Molly raised her eyebrows. “That wasn’t nice.”

He turned back around. “Excuse me?” he asked and his voice had a tremor in it she had never heard before.

“He came here three times. You don’t want to speak with him. What is he supposed to do?”

“Leave me the fuck alone as he was told.”

“He’s Sherlock. He never does as he is told.”

“Yes. And he doesn’t keep promises. Instead of saving my wife, he killed her.”

“That’s unfair,” she said.

“Oh, really?” he asked and stepped forward. “You think so? You think me, being a widower, Rosie being a motherless child is okay, but me not reading a stupid letter Sherlock Holmes wrote is unfair?”

“I didn’t...”

“You’re on his side. Of course you are. Everyone is,” he said with a cruel, short laugh.

“I’m not...”

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

Molly stared at him, wide-eyed. “But Rosie...”

“Get the fuck out!” he shouted.

“No,” she said, trying to sound calming, reassuring. “You need my help. Rosie...”

“Get out!” he shouted again and grabbed a book from the sideboard, throwing it at her.

He missed, maybe on purpose, maybe just because she made a quick step to the side.

Suddenly, the room was completely silent. Suddenly, Molly Hooper stared at John Watson, at his flushed cheeks, his heavy breathing and understood what Lestrade had meant. She did not know him. Not like this. Maybe she never really had. After all, what did she know about him, except that he was Sherlock's friend? Had she ever doubted him? No, she hadn't. Sherlock trusted him and that had been enough. That always was enough.

She turned around as she felt her eyes water. She hurried into the living-room and grabbed her bag and jacket, then rushed over to the front door. As her fingers wrapped around the doorknob, she stopped.

The John Watson she knew would have called after her. The John Watson she knew would, by now, stand behind her and apologise.

And Molly, so good at heart, so optimistic, so mistaken, turned around slowly, hoping he would be there. The flat behind her was empty. Somewhere, in the distance, a door was shut forcefully.

Molly opened the front door and stepped out. The John Watson she had believed she knew was gone; Mary had taken him, leaving behind a man Molly knew nothing about.


	3. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To John Watson, it's guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos, the comment, the bookmarks!  
> And thank you all for reading!

**Chapter Three: Guilt**

Rosie cried. But Molly Hooper had gone and wouldn’t return. And John Watson couldn’t get up. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, eyes focused on the other side, _her_ side. Did Rosie know? Had Molly whispered it to her while she had rocked her gently in her arms?

There was no gentleness in John, not in his words, not in his touch.

Or did she just feel it, the absence of normality, the missing of a well-known touch, a voice? Maybe the atmosphere had changed, from security to doubt, from harmony to dysfunction.

 

John Watson couldn’t get up and look at his daughter because he had caused this. Rosie would grow up without her mother because of him. Did she know that? Had she felt, when he had held her in her arms, that her father had a strange passion for broken people, for imminent danger? Had she felt that, even though he had it all, he couldn’t draw away from it – had she known before he had?

It did not matter. Molly Hooper was gone for three days and the apartment was a mess; if child care visited, they would cringe. Molly Hooper had gone because of him and he felt nothing towards it. No, not nothing. Actually, he had asked himself why he had never taken a chance at her. Molly Hooper was the type of women he preferred. Sensitive. Emotional. Caring. A womanly woman.

Like the teacher. The doctor. Like so many of his short-lived flings. Like E.

 

But he hadn’t chosen a woman like that to be his wife, no. He had chosen an assassin who had shot his best friend, only to pay it back to him by taking a bullet for him. She had paid it back to Sherlock. She hadn’t paid back anything to him, because she hadn’t had to, because he was so terribly drawn to her recklessness that he forgave her everything.

Just like Sherlock never apologized to him, because he was so terrible drawn to his recklessness, as well.

But he hadn’t completely run through with it. No, he had taken E.’s number, had saved it to his contacts, had written her. _Night owl._

He had wanted to have her, because she would have been like the others – the softer part. With them, he had always been the dangerous one, the soldier. They had admired him, loved him for the shallow taste of heroic adventure.

Mary hadn’t. To Mary, he had been a kind man, an intelligent man. The doctor. The reasonable one. She had admired him because he gave her life peace, harmony. He gave her what her nature wouldn’t allow her to achieve on her own. He had given her what he had only pretended he wanted. 

 

Sherlock had known. He sometimes wondered if Sherlock and Mary wouldn’t have eventually run off together, not in a romantic way, but as professionals. If their natures would have increased their love for danger and puzzles and secrecy to a point where they would have left him behind.

The consultant detective and the assassin, off to run the world.

 

Now they wouldn’t. Now 221 B Baker Street would always be his domain, Sherlock Holmes would always keep him as a sidekick. It had been one of his first thoughts after the realization of Mary’s death had sunk in and it had sickened him. Just as the thought of his cheating sickened him. He had been tempted as everything had been normal, as Mary had been a wife, a mother, as she had been like his flings. He hadn’t been tempted as she had left him, when it would have been understandable. When Mary had been Rosamund, she had been everything he had needed.

 

She wasn’t dead because of Sherlock. She was dead because of him, because he couldn’t spend his life with an average woman. Because he had told her to join Sherlock first. Because he loved that part of her more than anything, more than the wife, more than the mother. When Mary had been Rosamund, she had held a power over him that no one could break. Not E., not anyone else.

Sherlock held the same power. He had wanted Mary complicated, just as he wanted Sherlock complicated. He had wanted Mary flawed, just as Sherlock. It was a power that no one else could achieve, not Mycroft with all his soldiers, agents, strings, puppets and security cameras. Not Moriarty with his network, his threats, his mercenaries.

It had never bothered him. Not with Mary, not with Sherlock. But now, it did. He had lost his wife because Sherlock Holmes held power over him; he had willingly sacrificed her to his best friend’s arrogance and over-estimation. She was dead because of his expectation of her, because her being average hadn’t been enough to satisfy his needs.

 

What would he expect from Rosie? What would she become?

 

His mobile rang, but he didn’t answer, didn’t even look at the screen. All the people that had been there for him, had offered help were actually Sherlock’s. None of them were his, except his sister. And she was fragile herself, too fragile, flawed in a way he did not accept, did not want.

He did not want Sherlock, either. Did not want him, or any of his friends. Sherlock was the catalyst to his secret nature, to all his needs. Sherlock was what kept him from the safe harbour of normality. It was ironic, really, that he craved normality now, when Mary’s death had taken the one chance he had had away from him. It was ironic that now, he felt guilt for E.

 

Rosie still cried. And John Watson still sat on the edge of the bed, unable to move.


End file.
